Wondrous Fair
by CocoMingo
Summary: [Victorian England AU] Her Grace Maleficent Moore, the Duchess of Inverness is reclusive at best, and mysterious to all, save her dearest friend - Lord Diaval Corbeau. When the Earl of Ravensworth brings her a gift, he sets off a chain of events that will forever throw open the doors of the Duchess's closed heart. [Eventual Malora, slow burn - Rated T for now]
1. Dream of Beauty

**Author's Notes: The Duchess of Inverness and Earl of Ravensworth are accurate Victorian peerage titles, though obviously not for our two characters. Hope you like English Victorian history as much as you like Malora!**

**Don't forget to drop a review and let me know how you like the story so far. It's early days yet, but I'd really like to know if I am translating characters well into this Age. While I love the Victorian era, writing it is something entirely different. **

**Chapter Soundtrack:**

**"Nocturne," and**

**"Once Upon a Dream," as played by Emile Pandolfi**

* * *

**_in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and ninety three_**

* * *

It wasn't half past seven o'clock in the morning, but lithe fingers glided over the ivory keys of the music room's piano. A solemn score stretched them awake as the morning light crept around closed velvet curtains. It was always the first composition played, no matter what followed afterward.

As a scullery maid lit the fire for the day and drew open the drapes, delicate hands began to race from one scale to the other. The tune they played now was vastly more jolly than the servants both upstairs and downstairs had heard in quite some time. Her Ladyship must have seen the calling card waiting in the pewter dish just near the main doors of Inverness House prior to making her way through the parlor and to her only other friend, save the man who had left the card.

The First housemaid knocked gently on the wood moulding just at the entrance to the music room and bobbed a curtsy before entering. She knew better than to wait for acknowledgment from the Duchess – if she had, she might have been waiting for hours. Setting a tray of toast and tea onto the scallop edged table near the Lady's favorite chair, she bobbed another curtsy and murmured, "Your Grace."

Still, there was no slowing of the melodious noise that filled every nook and cranny of the vast, old estate. It was as good as any dismissal she was expecting, and the maid exited the room and back downstairs.

If there was anything the servants of the house would describe their employer as, it was reclusive. Eccentric, possibly. Beauteous, to be sure. But Her Grace Maleficent Moore, Duchess of Inverness and member to the House of Hanover was certainly and certifiably unsocial. It was a wonder to many that tended to her how she came to be courted, or wed at all.

Her marriage to the Duke of the house had lasted barely two years, and produced no children. That had been ten years ago, and the widowed eighteen-year-old had maintained her title by the mercy of Her Majesty the Queen. There was only one servant left from that period of the Duchess's life here at Inverness House. As all good butlers should, he kept his mouth tightly buttoned about it - except to say that the two years of marriage had been acutely gloomy for all attending the manor.

Now twenty-eight, a Lady of her standing ought to have been long re-married. The vast majority of talk downstairs swirled around the subject until hushed by their well-meaning butler. With no heir in sight, they worried for their own place in life – the stability and security of employment with the residing family. Unfortunately, it had remained a family of one.

A dainty timepiece atop the music room's rose marble mantle chimed eight times, and Maleficent's hands slowed along the keys. It would soon be time for the day to begin in earnest, and life here was nothing if not regimented. Her pinky laid the last note – G sharp, and slid off the piano. She waited until the tone had finished reverberating before she opened her eyes, and sighed deeply.

At fifteen past eight o'clock, the dressing bell would ring. Her green eyes glanced towards the mantle clock, and then to the bell in anticipation.

Once it had sounded, Maleficent rose from the bench to walk back through the parlor and into the foyer. Up the first flight of stairs, her Lady's maid Mary would be waiting.

Indeed she was, and with a curt nod to the short red haired woman, the morning pleasantries had been made. They walked down the first floor's gallery to her room in silence before coming upon the last door to the right.

Mary opened the bedchamber door and stood aside for the Duchess. When she first had started her employ here, it had fairly scandalized the Lady's maid that the woman would venture from this room without being properly dressed for the day. Playing her morning piano in naught but a nightgown and robe was one of Her Grace's peculiarities, and she'd grown used to it - and many more.

When Maleficent had seated herself onto the dressing table's tufted seat and raised an expectant brow, Mary knew that she was being given permission to speak freely.

Reaching inside the chifforobe, she pulled out three of the Duchess's favorite frocks and held them aloft. "What shall it be today, my Lady? Black with grosgrain trim, black with silk pintucks, or black with the beaded neckline?" she mused.

"The grosgrain will do," Maleficent murmured, rising to stand. She stepped to the center of the room as Mary laid the gown onto the bed in preparation, and lifted her nightgown over her head before handing it to the maid. Her unmentionables [1] were clean and had been the first thing she changed this morning straight out of bed. A freshly laundered chemise was pressed into her right hand, and she threw it on quickly.

"Ready, then?" Mary inquired while adjusting the laces to her corset.

Maleficent's answer was to lift her arms up and turn away. Her maid took the hint and wrapped the whalebone device of torture around her already slim frame before snapping the steel busks closed.

When Mary's hands ventured back to tighten the laces, Maleficent's hands stayed their journey. "No," she instructed simply. "It is adequate as is."

"I should think that with a fine gentleman like the Earl of Ravensworth calling for tea this afternoon you would want to look your best?" Mary questioned hesitantly.

Taking a deep breath to stretch her ribs and to compose herself, Maleficent tried not to snap. It wouldn't do well to frighten the staff, especially one as loyal as Mary had proven herself to be. "I'll thank you to leave it, Mary. He has not left his card to court me, I can assure you," she replied drily.

"Yes, madam," Mary blushed before bobbing a curtsey in recognition of the mild rebuke, and fetched the cotton petticoat and silk stockings that would need to be applied to her Lady before the black underskirt and over dress. She knew that Maleficent disliked bustles on a daily basis, though she secretly wished that the Duchess did – it might make her feel slightly more useful.

Having affixed the necessary undergarments to the Duchess, she made short work of the day gown. The woman she dressed knew just when to turn, lift a leg, or duck her head. Even so, the graceful movements were slow and beheld a melancholy that only a Lady's maid might notice.

Mary tried her hardest to bite her tongue about it, but sometimes her curiosity would burst forth. "The visit of a fine Lord must please you so. I only wish that we had a lighter coloured frock for you to wear. Men don't know how to act around ladies who wear black, forever tripping over themselves in worry that you're in mourning still," she reminded Maleficent.

"If Her Majesty can wear mourning clothes for thirty two years as of this date, then I shall not turn heads with wearing it for ten," the Duchess replied shortly, her teeth clacking slightly with bit back curses about impertinent staff.

As Mary did up the last button on her gown, she strode away towards the dressing table to sit once more, and the looking glass reflected the warning in her eyes that she wanted heeded presently.

Her maid's eyes cast downward in apology as she sorted through a collection of earbobs. Quiet now, she held each pair up and waited for Maleficent to nod her approval. It took only three pairs to get there; Mary knew she preferred the silver fringed bobs.

"Is Your Grace's grief so vast?" Mary asked, frowning at the idea that the Lady of the house might be quite _that_ miserable.

Maleficent sniffed delicately and turned away from the maid's pitying expression. "I grieve for no one, save myself; especially for enduring this household's incessant questioning of my ways."

* * *

Five o'clock meant the bell for tea, and with it came the announcement that the Earl Ravensworth had come to call.

Leaning back against the curved sofa in her receiving salon, Maleficent stifled an eye roll as the butler made quite the elaborate show of obeisance towards Diaval as he opened the pocket doors with a flair of his wrists and bowed to the visiting Earl. She felt rather like a prize hidden behind the doors, and huffed at that insinuation.

Most likely feeling the same amusement at the gesture, Diaval stood just inside the doors and waited patiently. While the butler's back was turned to him, he waggled his eyebrows up and down at her and wiped a smile off of his face, unable to control it by pursing his lips together. Always the character, Lord Corbeau was.

Maleficent had to pretend a cough to cover her chuckle of delight at his antics – her dear friend and confidante could always be counted on to bring her joy.

The butler gave her a look of concern at the cough before clearing his own throat to announce Diaval properly. "Your Grace, the Earl of Ravenscroft, Lord Diaval Corbeau," he declared impressively.

Diaval bowed deeply as she rose to curtsey from her place across the room. "I've come bearing many interesting things for us to peruse before dinner, Your Grace," he grinned jovially. "Call it an early birthday gift."

He motioned for the butler to gather the many canvasses wrapped and stacked just outside the room. The man moved quickly to follow the direction, and Diaval pointed to different places along the salon to place the paintings as they were unwrapped.

With a delighted smile, Maleficent gazed along the many different types of portraiture. She had a keen eye for art, and he knew it. They'd often visited painting and sculpture galleries together before she was married. "What is this-"

"If you'll allow me to elaborate, my Lady," Diaval cheeked, ignoring the butler's shocked inhalation at his casual usage of Maleficent's title. She outranked him in peerage by two levels, and she certainly wasn't _his _anything. He puffed his chest out proudly at the manservant when she did not scold him for the slight.

Sensing the battle for propriety rising in her resolute head of staff, Maleficent tilted her head at him. "Good man, be at ease..." she soothed. "I am in excellent company with Lord Corbeau. See to the tea downstairs?"

If his purpling face and tightening collar was any clue, her butler did not agree. He still bowed to her dismissal, glaring all the while at Diaval before backing out of the room and shutting the doors.

Now alone with her, the black-haired nobleman clapped his hands together excitedly. "Go on, then! Have a look!"

Scoffing a laugh before shaking her head, Maleficent did so. "I still don't understand – you could not possibly be gifting me all of these works for my birthday. Why on Earth would I want pictures of other people?"

"Come now, Millie!" Diaval chided, slipping easily into his pet nickname for her. "I daren't call you daft, but my word! They're sample portraits; I mean to commission one of your own. Without..."

His voice trailed off as a hard anger filled his inky brown-black eyes. '_Without him,' _he wanted to say, but didn't. Maleficent deserved many things, according to Diaval. Happiness was one, and that he could give her fleetingly. Her majestic beauty, both of the mind and body, merited a portrait of her own. Besides, her stature befitted having a solo painting. It was odd that she'd never sat for one past childhood, other than for her wedding.

Maleficent's icy teal eyes seemed to warm over at the prospect of it, and she walked the length of the salon twice over while running her fingertips gently over the paintings.

"Mmm, no..." she dismissed one after the other, only pausing for a few moments at each. "Certainly _not," _she tsked at a canvas depicting a Princess of the blood looking down fondly at her children and spaniel. "Dare I inquire if you brought any artist with you that wouldn't pair me with these foul creatures, or at a stand of embroidery?" she mocked.

Diaval chortled loudly, bending at the waist with appreciation at her joking. "F-Foul creatures? The spaniel, or the children?"

"Take your pick," she bit back under her breath.

Rubbing his hands together, Diaval's eyes took on a shine of mischievousness. "You see, I knew that you would say that. I've saved the best for last, naturally."

"Naturally," Maleficent smirked, gesturing airily with her hand in a circular motion for her friend to get to the point, and soon.

He scampered to the corner of the room and brought out a wrapped canvas that the butler hadn't been directed to place. Removing the linen with great care, Diaval held the portrait of a girl most wondrous fair.

The sitter had a cap of hydrangeas woven into her golden hair, and peered directly at the artist. Wide aquamarine eyes that had seen much and conveyed it well drew Maleficent in like a moth to a flame. Modeling the simpler clothing of a middle class lady, the model's dress was neither bedraggled, nor ostentatious. It allowed her radiant countenance to be the focus, and the painting seemed to breathe with the glowing promise of so much more than the hum-drum, stiff 'art' that scattered the room.

"Who-" she gulped, unaware that she'd been holding her breath. "I mean to say... I've not seen this model before. She is not gentry," Maleficent simultaneously described what she was seeing, and nudged Diaval for more information.

Well aware that the Duchess had been smitten with the artist's work, Diaval cracked a smile. "Millie, allow me to introduce you to Miss Aurora Rose – she is both the woman portrayed, and the painter. Quite the ingenue, no?"

Maleficent's pale hand extended slowly towards the canvas, and a single fingertip traced the curve of the woman's jaw. How appropriate was the fact that the young woman's name meant the dawn? The sun itself might blush in jealousy at her somehow innocent allure.

"She will do. Yes, she will do brilliantly."

* * *

[1] 'unmentionables' - Victorian era slang for drawers or undergarments. The ideal Victorian woman was pure, chaste, refined, and modest. This ideal was supported by etiquette and manners. The etiquette extended to the pretension of never acknowledging the use of undergarments (in fact, they were sometimes generically referred to as "unmentionables"). The discussion of such a topic, it was feared, would gravitate towards unhealthy attention on anatomical details.


	2. Dream of Flying

**A/N: While this fic may be set in Victorian era England, I'm trying valiantly to not slow its pace with unwarranted descriptions of the time and space, unless directly affecting our characters. As such, much of the world building in this story will be subtle, and will come slowly. Like most of my stories, this is one you'll want to pay attention to small details in now, especially to grasp the 'a-ha!' moments later on. For instance, you might notice that I have taken the liberty of anglicizing Stefan's name into the more traditional Stephen, appropriate for this time period. **

**I apologize for the lateness of this update, as well. There were quite a few real-life issues going on lately, and it delayed this chapter longer than originally anticipated. The next update will be far more expedient! **

**Chapter Soundtrack:**

"**Dream of Flying," by Brian Crain**

"**At the Ivy Gate," by Brian Crain**

* * *

In the mid-morning sunlight, Maleficent stretched her wings to fly.

She liked to play pretend at it, any how. It had long been a dream of hers, to have flight like the birds that chirruped near her window at each dawn. Once she came of age, the dream that used to come every night had been put aside as a thing of fanciful youth. Rarely did Maleficent dream that she swooped and soared o'er craggy cliff and lofty trees any longer.

But oh, how she was keen on closing her eyes on mornings like these, when it was naught but her and a horse on a jaunt through the countryside just outside Inverness. Last night, the fantasy would no longer be ignored by the more serious parts of her mind, and invaded her spirit once more with the promise of _freedom_.

Her trusty mare knew the route well, and meandered through the small glens and wooded trails until they came upon the larger field left to fallow this year. It was mid-autumn, and leaves of all color cascaded across the hillocks in a merry dance. The slightly chilly breeze seemed to invigorate the horse, and if Maleficent was being truthful, it did the same for her. Outside, the air wasn't stuffy, and didn't reek of the manor's strange scents that such old homes stored up from centuries of stuffier inhabitants.

Leaning forward onto her seat bones, Maleficent steadied her leg over the pommel of her saddle. [1] It wouldn't do for her to topple off when riding alone, especially during the speeds she planned on allowing her mare to go. The horse sensed what would come next, perking and swiveling her fine ears forward to listen for her mistress's commands. With a gentle touch of the riding crop against the right side of the mare's belly and a permissive click of her tongue, Maleficent gave her flying partner free rein to gallop.

Gallop the mare did – launching into a brisk canter before extending her long Thoroughbred legs in joy for Maleficent's allowance and slack rein. While her mistress had not flown with her in some time, the horse remembered well the whoop of glee that was sure to come once they had crested the first of two hills. In a sense of solidarity for the woman who seemed to enjoy running around the field as much as she, the mare tossed her head once and gave a sharp, happy whinny. Like many horses, Maleficent's mare was blessed with an acute sense for a rider's emotions once a bond had been formed. The mistress was often wretchedly dour until they'd had a good frolic, and she strove to stretch her legs even further until she could spot the woman's arms rise from the pommel and into the winds.

Eventually, the confidence to do so came. Both could sense it in the way that Maleficent sat straighter in the saddle, resting within her riding corset and taking a deep breath before wrapping the reins around the upper pommel. Her arms spread wide, the ten o'clock sun dappling her powder blue habit in golden sunlight as she threw her head back and heaved a sigh of relief. It might have been a queer sensation to others – finding relief in the dizzying speed and lack of control – but Maleficent so rarely ever let go of control. Animals had no ulterior motives, especially not this particular one so very dear to her heart. Theirs was a mutual trust, and in it she could escape from the daily slog of propriety and expectations foisted upon her by the supposedly advantageous marriage to the Lord of the Manor – the thankfully late Duke of Sussex, Stephen.

He had been the last of a slew of illegitimate sons born to the late King's brother, brought up as a page in the Royal Household. Rotten to the core, Stephen had not asked permission of the Queen to marry Maleficent. As such, she could never be styled Duchess of Sussex, but in her Majesty's great wisdom, Victoria had decided that the lifetime honor as Duchess of Inverness was far superior for her young friend. Even years later it was quite the talk, especially as Maleficent had no issue by His Grace. [2]

That particular thought brought a sly smile to Maleficent's lips, and a most unladylike chortle erupted from them as she tipped her head forward once more. Still traveling at a mighty good clip, her eyes watered, and she reached up with one hand to wipe an errant tear away. As soon as one had been swept away, another coursed forth from the edge of her lashes, and Maleficent pressed her gloved hand to the eye with a huff.

Sensing her rider's mercurial mood by the drooping of Maleficent's arms and the slight slouch of her posture, the mare slowed their pace to a trot and then a walk. Only when her vigilant ears picked up sniffling did the mare halt. Arching her neck to look back, she nibbled at the leather covered toe nearest her ribs.

"Oh, don't poke me up," [3] Maleficent muttered, and nudged her toe back at the mare's wordless chiding. "Mind yourself, then."

Tossing her head at her stubborn mistress, the mare heaved a great snort through her flaring nostrils and walked on.

* * *

The train from London to Inverness took the better part of a day, nearing eighteen hours if there were no kerfuffles or delays along the way. Rather than risk social ruin by accompanying the Earl of Ravensworth alone for such a long period of time in public, Aurora Rose had brought her lady's companion [4] for the duration. Martha would return to the London studio with their residence above it once Aurora had been safely ensconced under the protection of her new employer, but the extra round-trip ticket had been quite dear.

She had only been given a meager advance for her work from Lord Diaval Corbeau, and thus Aurora fidgeted nervously in their enclosed passenger cab of the train. The Earl of Ravensworth had insisted on paying the extra shillings for first-class tickets, and already she felt in his debt. It was an intensely uncomfortable thing for Aurora as a middle-class working woman to feel beholden to any man, let alone one she was sure would never court her fancy.

"I don't quite reckon why a confounded chaperone is required," Lord Corbeau had bemoaned Martha's stiff demeanor as soon after the train set off from London. "Her Grace allows me to call without a lady's companion," he held up a hand in a very airy manner, obviously unused to placating God fearing women without being overbearing. "She's never had need to keep one."

"Her Grace is a widow my Lord, with her own lands!" Martha quipped back, her lips tight with withheld lambasting. Men never understood the social mores that held women back – why should they, when afforded all the power in Christendom? "If you'll pardon my expression, I daren't think many quite care which quill the Duchess likes to dip her ink with. Her Majesty the Queen seems to think the Duchess a man unto herself, with her own title and all."

The Earl gave quite the hearty guffaw at Martha's expense, and even slapped his knee for good measure. "Oh, my good woman! It's a shame your jolly self can't stay longer than but a night."

Martha ignored the jest at her conduct, and turned to stare out the window at the passing countryside.

"Not that Her Grace particularly fancies quills of any sort. Damfino," [5] the gentleman muttered to himself.

A clammy grip took hold of Aurora's hand, then. Looking down, she was confused to see Martha's hand clasping hers so tightly that her companion's knuckles had whitened. It took minutes before they loosened to primp her attire once more.

Twice already, Martha had pulled Aurora's wayward, paint stained fingertips away from anxiously thumbing the lace edge of her afternoon shirt, worn beneath the finest walking suit she owned. Truth be told, Aurora felt ridiculously over-dressed, and was more oft used to being only in an overskirt, shirt and vest beneath her painting smock. However, she was traveling as a first-class passenger with the Earl, and would most likely be received by Her Grace, the Duchess of Inverness straightaway once at the manor house. There wouldn't be time to change clothing into something more suitable – not that she owned it.

Though the Earl appeared kind, and his dark eyes soft with understanding, Aurora could not afford to let her guard down. The slightest inappropriate gesture towards a man of the Earl's standing could be gossip fodder for months to come, and catastrophic to her fledgling career as a painter. It was already difficult to find work from better-paying customers and commissions, due to her rumored low-birth. Aurora's mother Leila had always taught her daughter the true meaning of class – carrying herself with dignity far beyond a woman who had escaped some of the strains of society by becoming a master painter's shopkeeper and head of household. Neighbors and busybodies liked to natter on about Leila's insistence that Aurora's father had died during her pregnancy; doubting openly that he had truly perished serving in the Third Anglo-Ashanti War's earliest skirmishes of 1871.

Nodding off onto Martha's shoulder several times during the course of the trip allowed Aurora to dream of her mother, and the lovely older gentleman that had been her Master and teacher. He taught her how to paint, recognizing the raw talent when she insisted on helping him in the workshop as a young girl. His firm hand, gruff voice, and wily blue eyes had given her guidance where her mother could not, and she would forever be grateful for the opportunity at apprenticeship.

When the painter had passed away two years ago, Martha had moved in, and kept a lively sort of middling class customers in and out of the shop for her seamstress work. They purchased tiny landscapes here and there for their sweethearts, and often asked Aurora to paint jewelry boxes for mothers, wives, and daughters alike. Rarely was she given the chance at portraiture, and never for an upper class Lady such as the Duchess. Such a large undertaking was an entirely new experience, save her own self-portrait – the last painting advised over by the Master.

So tired was she towards the end of their journey that Aurora found herself only nibbling at luncheon, though she ought to have been famished. The Earl of Ravensworth had apparently excused himself often during the night to partake in smoking, something that Martha found detestable. Her friend complained loudly of the stench that followed the man, and about how he should know better than to smoke around ladies without a proper smoking coat.

"Martha..." Aurora grimaced her displeasure for the racket while peeling a hard boiled egg from their pack. "I'll thank you to cease being such a church-bell, if you please. The Earl of Ravensworth is the reason I've come to this commission. If you cock this up for me, I shan't ever forgive you," [6] she warned, albeit half-heartedly.

Crossing her arms with a harrumph, Martha said not another word on Lord Corbeau's smoking, or ungentlemanly behavior for the remainder of the trip. Thankfully, it was short – only a half an hour from this stop until Inverness City, nestled in the highlands of Scotland.

* * *

The head of household at Inverness House had searched high and low for the better part of an hour, and was now resigned to peering through the trees with a troubled expression. Her Grace had not yet returned from a morning hack, and if the Earl's letter that arrived three days prior was accurate, the train carrying both he and the new artist in residence would have arrived at the station a half-hour ago.

Wringing her hands with worry caused the woman's belt of keys to jangle, and she fought to keep a calmer face as a hired cab trotted its way up the long drive from the gate.

"Your Grace... Your Grace?" she hissed into the trees, as though she expected the Duchess to come waltzing out of the bushes fully dressed in the proper attire to greet the guests. If only her employer made it so very easy on them! Her Grace Maleficent Moore was not easygoing, nor was she ever where any of the staff expected her to be. The impending arrival without her being present was sure to upset Maleficent, and the head-woman was loath to hear the reprimand that was sure to come, for no fault of her own. Did the Duchess forget that Lord Corbeau and Miss Aurora Rose were due today?

As if on cue, the Duchess and her horse emerged from the wooded path just as the cab rounded the drive to halt near the doors of the manor. Maleficent was a picture of discontent – eyes ruddy and blood shot, her dark hair fallen out of its pins to cascade around her shoulders. Pulling up her mount near the tie-off, she dismounted without waiting for a groom and hitched the horse herself.

Lord Corbeau was the first to exit the cab, and made short order of chuckling at the unlikely tableau. "Your Grace!" he joshed openly, and waved a hand. "How lovely of you to greet us."

"I'll thank you not to take such a derisive tone with me in the presence of staff," Maleficent turned a harsh glare towards the visiting Earl, and righted herself to proper stature and airs.

It was quite the scene, the Head-woman had to admit. Sweat beaded at the Duchess's brow, and her gloves were filthy with dust and tack polish. She probably smelled like the barn, but Her Grace held her chin high and stood with an admirable show of aristocratic beauty towards Lord Diaval Corbeau.

"Come now, Millie..." he mumbled apologetically, and bobbed a low bow. "It is just I, and the painter, Miss Rose-" With a discourteous nod towards the cabby, the Earl sniped back an oath. "-and her Lady's companion."

It was apparent that Lord Corbeau thought the painter's companion meddlesome – either that, or he'd wanted to become overly friendly with the artist on the way here. Both options vexed the head-woman, but she stared ahead into the cabbie as if to cue the gentleman to do as he should.

At both Maleficent's tight-lipped scowl and her staring, the Earl was visibly prodded into action. "I-uh, yes! Of course," he stuttered, unused to being the subject of Her Grace's ire.

Holding out a hand towards the open carriage door, Lord Corbeau then cleared his throat and made the introduction that should have been done inside, as conduct required. "My sincerest apologies, Your Grace," he coughed. "May I present Miss Aurora Rose, the skilled painter commissioned for your portraiture."

While Her Grace might have snapped her caller back into proper behavior with a commentary such as 'You may,' she did nothing of the sort. Standing stock still, she regarded the carriage expectantly.

That all changed once Miss Aurora Rose exited the cab, alighting without so much as a stumble. She floated as if on the wind, her dove-gray walking suit's rear bustle fluttering in the light breeze. Her palm barely touched Lord Corbeau's for guidance, and it was summarily dropped once she stood on terra firma to face her newest study for the first time. Studying the Duchess for a beat, an effervescent smile lit up the blonde's face.

Walking forward primly, the painter knew well enough to curtsey, and even remembered to murmur a demure "Your Grace," at her Ladyship. What happened next surprised the head-woman the least, though she knew that the guest deserved far better.

For a moment, Her Grace looked awe stricken at the angelic woman come to paint her; but as soon as her proffered hand was taken lightly in the young woman's stained fingers, Maleficent had snatched it back, and her face became a mask of harshness once more.

"Madam," she replied cooly, before turning on heel to stride up the stairs and into the manor.

Her cold, but polite manner had turned shortly into snarling, and servants and visitors alike jumped to. To the staff present, Maleficent's orders for the guests to be settled appropriately and dinner to be prepared was revealing in why her demeanor had changed so rapidly.

Her Grace was embarrassed, just as the head-woman had feared. There was nothing that Maleficent Moore, Duchess of Inverness hated more.

* * *

1\. Sidesaddles have two pommels – an upper pommel on which the rider rests their right leg, and a lower pommel which curves over the thigh of the rider's left leg. A Victorian lady, especially one of Maleficent's station, would have ridden aside.

2\. Issue – Children born to peerage. When a person of royal blood has children, they are classified as "issue." A ruder word for illegitimate children would be "get." In Victorian England, it would have been unique for a woman married higher than her original station would retain the title after the death of her husband, especially if she had not issued an heir to the title in question. The Duchess of Inverness was a title specifically created for this purpose by the Queen.

3\. Poke up – to embarrass. 'Don't poke me up' is a request not to embarrass someone further.

4\. Lady's Companion - A lady's companion might be taken on by an unmarried woman living on her own. The companion would also act as a chaperone; at the time, it would not have been socially acceptable for a young lady to travel with or receive male visitors without either a male relation or an older lady present (a female servant would not have sufficed.)

5\. Damfino - "Damned if I know," a more polite way of saying this, though not particularly polite at all.

6\. Church bell – a talkative woman.


End file.
